Monsters, Inc.

Monsters, Inc. – A London‑lingual Ode

In the glass‑laden, bass‑drummed heart of the city’s night,
A factory stands, lamps flick‑flicking bright.
Not a steel‑clad armour of industry—
But a cosy workshop of the frightful‑kind.

The chief of their crew, the gentle‑gaunt Sully,
Swims through corridors with a grin so hulky.
Idling the elevators, “Monsters, Inc.” showcases
Its gentle mischief in the cartoons of gloom.

Beside him, the quick‑paced Mike splays, a laugh in his voice—
A shuttle‑rest, a “spine‑snicker” pick‑up, a theory of choice.
Together they harvest the quiet of a sleeping kiddie—
A night‑time favourite that the system duly “gif‑s” away.

But tonight’s plan thrums with a new heartbeat within:
A tiny human, a girl, whose blue‑eye shine draws them;
She does not fear the fright, she merely stares,
Her loyal heart regal, her eyes a wind‑blown glare.

Boo, she’s all‑gel and wonder, a bathroom apparition:
Tiny, itty‑bitty, an over‑favourite rendition.
Her favourite toddle, her plodding, brings on a change,
The quartant of the building to rearrange.

With each tick of the organiser-clock, the laws of physics bend:
Exiting, joy is measured by a stash of friend‑made ink.
In a world of coloured cackles and buzzing lights,
Monsters learn that a ghost is no kicker or fright.

Crowns of chequered rows of pneumonia‑spikes,
The centre floor has a coffee‑shop that’s so “big‑or‑stroke.”
And small, strange, beware—the toy‑booster of slithering‑gloom:
A fate of gale‑spilt or the new broadening of a zoom.

No one will say the studios sell the truth and care;
Kinda’ it just “organises” its events to flare.
Yet we hear, in the neon glow, a whisper of heart:
“Delight, dear human, love the monsters’ part.”

Monsters, Inc. shows that with faker–furry skin we can learn
The path of borrowed terror, the tideless charm of turning.
A cinematic musée of shadows, dear children in beat,
Where London’s moniker—“GREAT”, “BREE”, “DEF—hmm, neat!”